


Such Delight As Prisoned Birds Must Find in Freedom

by Cinaed



Category: Regeneration - Barker
Genre: Gen, Male Friendship, Poetry, World War I, Yuletide, Yuletide 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 18:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone suddenly burst out singing;<br/>And I was filled with such delight<br/>As prisoned birds must find in freedom,<br/>Winging wildly across the white<br/>Orchards and dark-green fields; on – on - and out of sight."<br/>-"Everyone Sang" by Siegfried Sassoon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Delight As Prisoned Birds Must Find in Freedom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calliope85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliope85/gifts).



> Thanks go out to tabula-x-rasa for beta-reading this for me, and to googlebrat for helping me with the ending. This was tremendous fun to write, and I fell in love with Sassoon's poetry all over again!

It was difficult to imagine Saint-Floris as a farming village. Now the little village was part of the front line, trenches where pastures and fields of grain had been, most of the buildings damaged beyond recognition. There was no moon tonight, and even the stars were hidden-- two of the reasons Sassoon had agreed to the attack on the German trenches with only a single corporal alongside him. That, and the whisper in the back of his mind to do something, anything to end this war faster, even if that meant taking risks that would have made Rivers look disapprovingly over his spectacles at him. 

Longstreet scrambled ahead of him, the words drifting back over his shoulder at Sassoon as the corporal whispered, 'They didn't even see it coming, sir.' 

  


Sassoon paused even as Longstreet went on. He crouched there for a moment in No Man's Land, taking his helmet off long enough to wipe at the sweat on his brow. The attack had been successful-- the Germans hadn't expected anyone to be mad enough to cross over and attack. Only one soldier had even had enough time to look surprised as Sassoon had killed him. That man's blood stained his uniform, and if Sassoon thought too hard on it, he could feel a few dried flecks on his cheek as well, beginning to itch. 

  


Behind him, he could hear the distant shouts and curses of the enemy as the Germans rushed about, trying to learn what had happened and where to aim their guns. He half-smiled to himself in the dark, even as the wind blew the smell of dirt and smoke into his face. The title Mad Jack would be bandied about after this, no doubt. Moving forward once more, for Longstreet was already lost to sight, he began to sing softly under his breath, so quietly even he could barely hear the notes.

  


'O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling, O Grave, thy victory? The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me--'

  


He opened his eyes what seemed like an instant later, his head pounding and eyes watering from the pain. Everything spun around and around when he tried to lift his head and regain his bearings so he let his head fall back against the earth. Sassoon lifted a hand, pressed it to the side of his head, felt the sticky dampness and familiar texture of blood-matted hair. It took another moment to understand he'd been shot, and then he let his hand drop as something like laughter mixed with bile scraped his throat.

  


'Someone has terrible aim. Couldn't even get me between the eyes,' he muttered, and then bit his lip, though there was no one around to hear. 

  


'Sir!' Longstreet was suddenly kneeling beside him, face white beneath the smudges of dirt and blood. 'Hamilton didn't know-- he thought you-- sir, say something. Are you all right?' The man's voice shook almost as badly as his hands did, as he reached out clumsily, hand brushing against the wound. 

  


Even that light pressure hurt beyond description, and the stars and Longstreet's stricken expression winked out again as Sassoon lost consciousness. He struggled back, clinging to the feel of the dirt and rocks under his back and Longstreet's fervent apologies in his ears. He opened his mouth to reassure Longstreet, but all that came out was a quiet, ragged gasp as his vision swam and his wound continued to throb. He wanted to fall back into the painless darkness, but that would mean leaving the corporal with his dead weight.

  


He forced his eyes open. Get to the trenches, then collapse.  

  


'Sorry, sir, just-- let me--' Longstreet wrapped an arm around Sassoon's shoulders, half-dragging, half-carrying him towards the trenches, still whispering apologies as they went. He didn't seem to notice Sassoon's attempts to get his legs steady beneath him. It was just as well, for all the attempts were failures. Sassoon's stomach rebelled with every step, until he was coughing and fighting back bile, half-blind from pain.  

  


Then they were at the trenches and relative safety, his men clustered around him as they helped him down the ladder and someone called urgently for a medic. Sassoon felt warm, glad hands on his shoulders and back, and felt that same terrible laughter lodge in his throat. 'I'm fine,' he tried to say, but the words wouldn't quite come, silenced by the look in Hamilton's eyes as the man seized his hand and stammered out an apology. 

  


Sassoon submitted to the ministrations of the medic with relief, turning away from everyone's gaze. Besides, his wound now throbbed with every breath he took, and it was all he could do not to simply fold up his legs and collapse to the ground. He leaned into the medic's grip instead, eyes fluttering shut despite his better efforts, the roaring in his ears swallowing him up until everything grew dark. 

  


***

  


"At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step."

  


\- "The Rear-Guard" by Siegfried Sassoon, written in 1917 on the Hindenburg Line

  


***

  


The letter had crumpled in his grip. Once his hands stopped shaking, Rivers carefully began to smooth out the creases with his thumbs. Certain words and phrases leaped out at him even as he painstakingly set the letter to rights. 

  


_Sassoon -- injured -- head wound -- returning to England_. 

  


He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to imagine Sassoon half-witted, that clever mind of his damaged beyond repair by an enemy's bullet. He reread the letter, relieved to learn the wound wasn't as serious as all that. He frowned at how Sassoon had been injured: first, performing an entirely reckless attack on the German trenches and somehow managing to come out of it unscathed, and then losing his helmet and getting shot by his own side during his triumphant return. 

  


Rivers supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He'd known about Sassoon's private death wish when he'd helped send him back to France, after all. Still, Sassoon being killed by his own men would have been too much to bear. 

  


He leaned back in his chair, setting the letter down. He needed to take a breath, look at this with a calmer eye. And then see Siegfried for himself. According to his source, Sassoon was already back in England. Luckily, the hospital he was currently staying in wasn't so very far away. It was the work of mere minutes to rearrange his schedule and set off to see Sassoon. The weather was sunny and quite warm, rare in that there was no cloud in sight, and he was a bit red in the face by the time he arrived at the hospital. 

  


Rivers walked into the ward with quick, impatient steps, looking down the rows of beds and searching for that familiar face. 

  


The man in question was in the middle of the left row, a pen and paper in hand, frowning absently at whatever he'd just written. Sassoon wasn't surprised to see Rivers, judging by the rueful smile half-lost beneath the bandages. 'Rivers,' he called, lifting a hand in mock salute. 'It isn't as bad as it looks.' This was said as though to ward off any fussing Rivers might have been about to do, and so Rivers clamped his mouth shut on any immediate comment about self-preservation. 

  


'I'm glad to hear it,' he said instead, and nodded his thanks as a nurse brought around a chair. He sat, knees just brushing the bed. Despite Sassoon's lighthearted attitude, Rivers could see signs of anxiety: white knuckles, a seemingly unconscious fidgeting with his pen, the way Sassoon didn't quite meet his eyes. 'Another poem?' When Sassoon simply frowned, Rivers motioned towards the paper.

  


'Oh.' Sassoon's face cleared. 'No, I'm writing a letter to Owen.' He paused, hesitating, and then added, 'Owen's going back.' There was no question as to where. 

  


Ah. And here was the problem. Did Sassoon still want to return to France? Did he recognize the death wish that had been lurking in the back of his mind? Keeping the questions off his face, Rivers simply nodded. 

  


'He tells me he spent his birthday comfortably in Ripon, but that he's due back to the Front in a few weeks,' Sassoon said after a moment of silence. Rivers could hear the strain in the words and wasn't surprised when Sassoon abruptly switched topics. 'Robert has already written to tell me what he thought of my latest stunt, you know. Said I was lucky not to have my fool head taken off.' 

  


'You were,' Rivers said, and Sassoon laughed, a hoarse, harsh sound. 

  


'Lucky's the word for it, I suppose. Are you here to scold me as well?' 

  


'No,' Rivers said. 'I suspect you'll hear enough of that from Graves and your mother. I came to see how you were.' 

  


'I'm fine,' Sassoon said, and then laughed again. 'But then, I'm certain you hear that all the time.' 

  


'The answer is rather par for the course,' Rivers agreed. He rested his hands on his knees and looked at Sassoon for a long moment, watching the younger man struggle to control his expression. His body language betrayed him; it was impossible to miss the way Sassoon squared his shoulders, as though he and Rivers were about to fight. Perhaps Rivers should have pressed him, discussed whether Sassoon should go back to France or not, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Besides, there was time enough for such discussions later. 

  


'Has Owen sent you any more of his poems?' he asked, and watched surprise and then relief flicker across Sassoon's face. 

  


'Sent me one while I was first recuperating in France,' Sassoon said, and then reached to the bedside table. 'It has promise.' 

  


Rivers leaned back, and let Sassoon's voice wash over him as Siegfried began, slowly at first, and then with growing confidence:

  


'Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once,  
At home, whispering of fields unsown.  
Always it woke him, even in France,  
Until this morning and this snow....'

  


***

  


  


"But yesterday my reasoning Rivers ran solemnly in, With peace in the pools of his spectacled eyes and a wisely omnipotent grin; And I fished in that steady grey stream and decided that I after all am no longer the Worm that refuses to die."

  


  


-Siegfried Sassoon, in a letter to Robert Graves 

  


***

  


'I didn't realize you were back in England,' Rivers said mildly as he let Siegfried into his flat. He took in Sassoon's somber appearance, the lines of strain on his young face, with some surprise. He hadn't heard of anything that should cause Sassoon to look so worn. Surely the trip to America hadn't been that terrible.   

  


'Just got back yesterday,' Sassoon admitted. He sat, stretching out his legs and looking as though he was about to fall asleep in Rivers's favorite armchair. 

  


"You spoke at Yale?'

  


'Harvard, actually,' Sassoon said, and then looked squarely at him. 'But my lecture at Harvard isn't what I came to discuss.'

  


'Oh?' Rivers sat down. He waited, fairly certain he knew what Sassoon was about to say. 

  


'You're creating quite a reputation, you know.' 

  


'Am I?' Rivers said again, feigning surprise. Despite his better efforts, he found himself wearing a small smile. The urge to laugh welled up, but he firmly repressed it. 'Let me guess. You have been told my senses have gone wandering. That I am outspoken and effusive beyond what is decent. That I am spending my money on frivolous things and will be poverty-stricken before the year is out.' He leaned back in his chair, smile widening at Sassoon's surprise. 'You are not the first to be concerned, Siegfried.'

  


Sassoon shifted in his chair. 'You must admit they have some cause.'

  


'I have made quite a few changes,' Rivers agreed. 'But I feel they are good changes, not dangerous ones.' He paused. How to explain that he was actually experiencing life now, rather than simply observing it? That he was joining clubs and seeking out public speaking opportunities because he wanted to truly _live_? How to explain all that, and not sound half-mad as he did? At last, he said gently, 'My serious work is over, Siegfried. I can celebrate.' 

  


'Your serious work is over,' Sassoon echoed, and slouched down further in his seat. The final word rang hollow, and Rivers frowned and looked closer at the other man. As he'd thought, Siegfried looked almost, but not quite, as bad as he had during his months of convalescence, when he had debated returning to France one more time and had at last resigned his commission. Something was eating away at him, bit by bit. 'You've done the greatest work you ever will, and now you're...enjoying what comes afterwards.' 

  


Rivers frowned, and then understood. The more the months passed and the time between the Armistice and the present deepened, the more people tried to put the war behind them. No doubt Sassoon's poetry was some of what was being left behind. And seeing a future stretching out before him post-zenith would be daunting for a man of only thirty-four. 'I read your poetry whenever it's published, you know,' he remarked, and knew he was right in the way Sassoon's gaze flickered from his.   

  


'I didn't come here to discuss myself.' 

  


'No, you came to see if I'd truly lost my mind,' Rivers said. 'Which I haven't.' When Sassoon continued to frown, Rivers shook his head and then leaned forward, close enough to Siegfried to have laid a hand upon his knee if he'd wished. He spoke very low, meeting Sassoon's gaze and hoping he could see his earnestness, 'Come, Siegfried. I am "the speck that steers a careful course far down the verge of day", "the one who understands your thoughts". You're worried about your life's meaning beyond the war. Talk to me.' 

  


Sassoon inhaled sharply at that, and flinched away, though Rivers hadn't moved to touch him. 'I shouldn't have written that poem,' he said dryly. 'You'll use it against me every chance you get.' 

  


'Not against you,' Rivers corrected. 'For you.' 

  


'I don't understand how you can be glad that your life's work is over,' Sassoon said. When Rivers remained silent, he scowled. 'What's the _point_ now?' 

  


'The point is that I can do as I wish with the rest of my life.' Rivers chuckled, spreading his hands. 'I have decades in me yet, Siegfried. I plan to enjoy them. As should you.' 

  


After a moment, Sassoon smiled. It was a reluctant gesture, but made less so by his, 'Very well. How should we enjoy them, then?' 

  


Rivers smiled back. Oh, he had so many ideas. 'I've been speaking with Bertrand. We've been discussing the idea of a group,' he began, and watched a spark of interest gleam in Siegfried's eyes. 

  


The war was over for all but those hopelessly ruined beyond repair. Siegfried was worn down, yes, but not broken; Rivers knew they would both survive and, moreover, flourish with time and perseverance.

  


For his part, Rivers peered forward at all his tomorrows, and all Sassoon's tomorrows, and relished the sight. 

  


***

  


"I have finished my serious work and I shall just let myself go."

  


-Williams Halse Rivers Rivers

  



End file.
